Peter’s Crazy Aunt (C)

Edward G. Nilges, Peter’s Crazy Aunt (C) Couture en Haute en Bas, pencil, pen, Gimp colorization, 2 Aug 2011

Peter’s Crazy Aunt (C): a fashion line for expatriates, ne’er do wells, romantics, and everybody who plans to outlive Amy Winehouse by checking into a rehab (it really isn’t that bad, and no, they don’t flog the Baby Jesus in most of them, especially north of the Mason Dixon line, they flog a day at a time, they might flog you if you’re into it, and as far as they care, you can make Karl Lagerfeld your Higher Power. Fact.)

Self-destructiveness will only take you so far. Write a sad poem in your journal, and then go Shopping, you stupid byotch!

Don’t be above it all. I went straight from the wrack of my marriage to Water Tower Place, a primitive proto-mall in the John Hancock Building. I decided to be superficial and not Deep since I almost drowned in the depths of a fathomless marriage.

Give yourself permission to dance and if you do so, wear this dress as soon as I get around to having it made for you by seamstresses not in Mainland China but in Hong Kong with labour laws. Caution: I know nothing about dress design, only art. I think it will stay on you until you choose to take it off.

Seriously, 27!!??? WTF? Would Amy had a Sassy Gay Friend! To take her shopping at Peter’s Crazy Aunt (C) in Notting Hill, Lincoln Park, and Sheung Wan!

(Hey, I’m serious about the copyright. You have been warned!)

Seriously, if it works for you that the Baby Jesus weeps when you pick up, that’s cool. I used to believe that the Virgin Mary cried when I jerked off! I came to believe…otherwise.


Twirling your blue skirts, travelling the sward
Under the towers of your seminary,
Go listen to your teachers old and contrary
Without believing a word.

Tie the white fillets then about your hair
And think no more of what will come to pass
Than bluebirds that go walking on the grass
And chattering on the air.

Practice your beauty, blue girls, before it fail;
And I will cry with my loud lips and publish
Beauty which all our power shall never establish,
It is so frail.

For I could tell you a story which is true;
I know a woman with a terrible tongue,
Blear eyes fallen from blue,
All her perfections tarnished — yet it is not long
Since she was lovelier than any of you.

John Crowe Ransom

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